No Escape
by x Hemlock x
Summary: Sirius Black is a caged bird. He always has been, from the moment he was born into a household of fear and oppression to the time he was forced to return to that same house and stay there after years of imprisonment—and he hates it.


**No Escape**

Number twelve, Grimmauld Place held a silent vigil over the empty Muggle street. Invisible to the eyes of passersby, it stood, alone and forgotten, collecting dust and falling into disrepair. The front door was battered, the windows grimy, and the walls dirty. The smells of damp, dirt and rot clung to the house like a cloying perfume. Once a grand and handsome building, it was now nothing more than a shadow of what it had once been.

Regardless of how much he loathed the old house, Sirius acknowledged that it was a fitting place for him to live. Although 'live' was too splendid a word for it; 'exist' was far more accurate.

Sirius sat in the drawing-room by the fire, an open book held between his hands as he desperately tried to distract himself from the fact that he was once again nothing more than a prisoner. It was a recurring theme; there was no denying it. One way or the other, he had spent most of his life trapped—by his parents; his duty; a war; Azkaban itself, and now this. Somehow his current predicament was the worst of the lot. He was so close to freedom; he could almost taste it, but it remained beyond his grasp, forever out of reach.

A log broke, and the fire flared, casting a warm glow over the dark room.

Molly and the children had made a valiant effort to make the house habitable, but no amount of cleaning spells or elbow grease could ever dispel the darkness that clung to its walls and crept along its beams. Not even the brightest light seemed to make a difference; the shadows always won out in the end.

Sirius flipped to the next page. He read each word only to forget them a moment later. His gaze ran through the letters; his hands turned the pages. He went through the motions, nothing more, nothing less.

'A man's reach should exceed his grasp,' one sentence said. It held Sirius's attention for a passing minute. But what was the point when his reach and his grasp were limited to these four walls? He slammed the book shut and hurled it across the room towards the shadowiest corner.

The book—a collection of poems written by a Muggle who had lived lifetimes ago—was used to such rough treatment. When Remus had given it to Sirius as a late Christmas present, Sirius had thrown it to the ground and kicked it for good measure.

'A small escape,' Remus had called the gift when Sirius had torn away the wrapping paper. An escape from a reality that was nothing like Sirius had imagined. But it was a lie. There was no escaping this.

Remus hadn't said a word at Sirius's outburst; he had taken his cloak and walked out, leaving Sirius alone once more.

A sob built up in his chest, choking him as it forced its way past his throat. He rose from his seat and ventured into the darkness. He didn't need to wait for his eyes to adjust; he was already accustomed to it. The book lay in a patch of dust, facing Sirius in silent judgement—or perhaps it felt only pity, which was far worse. Sirius shook off the thought. It was not customary for Muggle books to judge or experience compassion; his mind was playing tricks on him again; that was all. He bent to pick up the tome, joints creaking and muscles complaining. Twelve years in Azkaban had done irreparable damage, not only to his mind but to his body also. He had once been as healthy as a Hippogriff, strong and fast, but that was a distant memory now. His bones ached with every step, and his lungs burned with every breath. It was a wonder he could still stand on his own two feet.

He wiped the dust from the book, holding it with more care as his aimless anger died down.

Remus had returned a few days after the gift-giving incident. He hadn't said a word about it, had acted as though it hadn't happened. Following the incident, Sirius had experienced something close to guilt, as well as a blind panic, thinking that he had pushed away the only friend he had left. When Remus had walked through that front door, Sirius had vowed to never lose his temper again.

That promise had lasted all of ten minutes.

Remus hadn't been back since; no one had—not Tonks or Kingsley, not the Weasleys, not even Mundungus. Sirius was left with only Kreacher for company, and that unpleasant little house-elf barely counted as such.

Sirius stepped back into the light of the fire, letting the warmth wash over him and fight off the lingering chill of his dark thoughts. He sat down in his chair once again and opened the book, going through the motions—the only thing keeping him sane, or as close to it as he could get.

A handheld mirror sat on the table beside Sirius's armchair. He tried to keep his mind from fixating on it by focusing on the random page in front of him, but it was no good. His gaze kept flicking to the side, hoping to spot a pair of green eyes peering through the clear surface.

He had given Harry this mirror's twin weeks ago, but his godson had yet to contact him.

Sirius and James had used the two-way mirrors constantly in and out of Hogwarts, whenever they were apart, to talk about anything and everything. If Sirius let his mind dwell on the memories, he could almost see them before his eyes—the flash of a hazel gaze through the mirror's surface and the whisper of his name falling from his best friend's mouth.

The ache in Sirius's heart grew, threatening to swallow him whole. The pages of the book blurred through a haze of tears, which Sirius blinked away as quickly as he could. Still, some escaped, running down his cheeks and hitting the book with tiny plops, darkening the paper and smearing the ink.

The mirror never left his side; he carried it with him wherever he went and slept with it by his bed. But its silence was deafening, and with every passing minute, loneliness gnawed at his stomach, eating away at him.

He needed more than this; it was killing him.

Sirius tensed as the door creaked open, old memories of his parents walking in with their vile tempers and unbridled hatred encroaching on his mind. He squeezed his eyes shut to dispel the image of drawn wands and the sound of slurs and curses. But it was the familiar insults that brought him back to the present.

"Such a disappointing son," Kreacher muttered, his voice hoarse and deep, "always causing Mistress such grief."

Sirius's eyes snapped open as he fought the urge to throw his book at the house-elf. "Get out, pest."

He couldn't turn to glare at the foul creature, not with his reddened eyes and the tear tracks down his face. Kreacher edged into the room, sticking close to the walls. His loincloth had once been a pristine white, but in the ten years since Walburga Black had died, the house-elf had not only stopped cleaning the house, he had also stopped cleaning himself. The rag was filthy—brown and grey; crusted with dirt and Merlin knew what else. His skin sagged around his slight form as though he had stolen it from a creature much bigger than him—a pig if his snout-like nose was anything to go by.

"So sorry, Master Sirius. Kreacher did not see you there." He bowed low enough that his nose touched the mouldy carpet, adding in a clear undertone, "Mistress would be so ashamed. What would she say to old Kreacher? Poor old Kreacher, what can he do…"

"I said 'get out'," Sirius snarled.

"As you wish, Master Sirius," said Kreacher. He rose out of his bow, his bloodshot eyes glittering as he caught sight of Sirius's tear-stained face.

Kreacher shuffled out of the room, and Sirius was left alone. With a deep sigh, he rubbed away the tears and reached for the two-way mirror. Staring into it, he saw only his reflection—pallid skin, red eyes, and uncombed hair.

"Come on, mate," he said, looking past himself. "I'm right here. Just pick up the mirror and talk to me."

There was no answer; there never was, but Sirius always hoped. He squeezed the mirror tighter in his fist, feeling the cold metal bite into his skin.

"I'm here if you need me," he said, barely above a whisper. "Whatever you need, whenever you need it, I'll be here."

He set the mirror down along with the book and stepped up to the window. Snow fluttered down onto the empty street below. Sirius longed to feel it melt against his skin. He could think of nothing better than letting it soak through his clothes, freezing him to the bone.

One day it would happen.

When this war was over, and his name was cleared, he would step out of this house as a free man. His life would start again, and he would be happy.


End file.
